Red Sky Rising
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: War can change a man. So can peace. [AustinDallas] Spoilers for the War Buddies graphic novels.


_Red Sky Rising_

He comes with a breathless, feral grunt, like a dumb animal.

Suits him.

A few moments of stillness pass - a mock embrace, almost romantic if you wished hard enough - and he pulls out unceremoniously, breathing in coarse pants, sweating even more than usual.

Out here sometimes it feels like there's more sweat than there is skin, like you're drowning in it. It's actually one of the more pleasant sensations you can experience in this wonderful land.

He leaves a throbbing ache in his wake, but I barely register it. It's not even a distraction.

Few things are, much as I may wish them to be.

There are no distractions in Hell.

I watch him silently. It's a sick fascination, but I don't really have anything better to do.

He rolls from side to side with a strained, restless energy; swats at a mosquito, crushing it against his shoulder. A red mush takes its place.

Blood.

_Blood everywhere. Bones mending under my touch, the sickening sound complementing the man's terrified expression – a deer caught in the headlights, repeatedly run over without mercy – he wants release, wants to die. I want to let him - to let go. I can't. The cycle continues and I do nothing to stop it. Nothing. _

I have the sudden urge to throw up.

My gag reflex has been overworked as of late, and is now sufficiently numbed out. I suppose you could call that a defense mechanism. Have to make yourself a neat little set of those if you want to survive out here.

Do I even _want_ to survive?

I'm not sure I care anymore.

You can only feel so much.

He finally meets my gaze. Frowns. Trying to summon up his commanding voice, he snarls, "What're you looking at?"

A glorified murderer.

A brutal, bloodthirsty predator that has somehow convinced itself that it's more than a mindless killing machine.

A typical human, in so many words.

Not that I'm any better. At least he has the strength to not give a damn.

"Nothing."

"Then knock it off."

Sir yes sir.

I look away, rolling onto my back. Through a kaleidoscope of treetops I catch a glimpse of the early morning sky.

It should be desolate, contaminated, like the rest of this place - infected with napalm and the fumes of blood and burning corpses. Something out of a nightmare. Something deformed and grotesque, like the tortured faces of the dead. Something ugly.

But it isn't.

The sun is coming up, spilling a range of colors onto the sky's naked canvas. From orange to purple to moody crimson – a vibrantly harmonious spectrum. It's pure, untouched by the endless pain, the imperfections and flaws of humanity.

It's beautiful.

A beautiful lie, or maybe the only truth there is.

I inhale, – the air is humid to the point of suffocation, but you get used to it – think back to a favorite Bob Dylan song until it plays in my head down to the last note, and slowly drift into oblivion.

In two hours we'll be back in the slaughter field, doing our patriotic duty. Saving the world.

And the pain will return.

* * *

Blood is flowing freely from my nose and I welcome it. Welcome the pain. It's liberating.

You could call it catharsis.

His face reads of betrayal. Of broken trust.

_Trust_. That has to be the punch-line to a bad joke.

He actually _believed_ I'd confirm his story. Risk everything for the man who taught me how to kill. Who _made_ me kill.

He's being pulled away; still putting up a struggle, but I can see his resistance fading, transforming into desperation. It's eating away at him, a deadly disease on slow burn.

Who's the freak now?

Eventually he gives up, his face going blank as if he's heading for his own execution – and in a way, he is.

A pang of sympathy threatens to creep in.

Sympathy? Am I insane?

_She's dying – I can hear it, feel it in every thread of my body, prickling against my skin, underneath it, needles scratching inside me. I can fix it, make it better, just need to get to her, she's just a few feet away, just- he holds me down. He's bigger, stronger. I struggle but I can't reach her. Only listen to the quiet whimpers, the gasps for air that grow hoarser. I can look straight into her eyes - dark and turbulent. They're filled with disbelief. She doesn't understand. I don't either. Her dying breath is deafening, silent. Final. Her eyes grow empty. Nothing left to fix. _

I give him a curt, pleasant smile. Discreetly enough so the others won't catch it.

There are no winners in war. It goes against the definition.

But in our_ personal_ war, there is an undisputable loser.

And it's not me.

* * *

He's different. Mellower. Softer around the edges.

I can hardly blame him.

War can change a man.

So can peace.

His face is weary, lined with regret.

I've come to learn that regret is an emotion that needs to be exterminated upon conception. It serves no practical purpose, and certainly no constructive one. It is, however, a highly decorative Achilles' heel. Some people might even feel privileged to take advantage of that.

The past is meant to provide us with lessons, not regrets.

And I've learned my lessons well.

He's should know. He's one of them.

Possibly the most important of them all.

I've changed, too. But unlike him, I've evolved. Broadened my perspective.

He has chosen to bury his head in quicksand instead.

Well, we all make choices. Free will is a wonderful thing. Who am I to judge?

Predictably enough, self loathing is also prominent in the large scale of things. I can read it off him, as transparent as a children's book, only not quite as colorful, and honestly, a bit on the dull side.

This is what happens when you take the war away from the soldier.

He has a life he's not living. A family he barely knows.

He's stuck.

No meaning. No future. No purpose.

I can help him.

I don't like to think in terms of revenge – it's pedestrian. Not worthy of my time.

But I can't deny a certain advantage in being the one with the answers for once.

It takes a great man to learn from his mistakes.

It takes a greater one to pull another to his feet and make him do the same.

The past has become a quaint footnote.

It's time to put it aside.

"I owe you an apology."

* * *

He owes me a great deal more.

His life, for a start.

I'm not trying to be petty, of course, just pointing out a little fact.

The balance has turned – upside down, inside out. Now I'm in control. Absolute control.

He's mine.

I cup his jaw, whisper in his ear; relish the shiver he can't suppress as I thrust my tongue into it.

Partnership implies equality, but when has equality ever played a part?

When has it ever existed, for that matter?

It's one of those awfully vague terms that can be remarkably easy to disregard,

He isn't protesting, after all.

I get a sharp, uneven breath out of him, digging my fingers into his back, hard enough to leave a mark.

Playtime's over – the rhythm grows more frantic, animalistic, brutal. Just like old times.

Climax reached, curtains drawn. No last bow though.

Lying next to him, I try to keep my mind blank –a remarkably easy task, strangely enough.

It's idyllic, in a way, if you fail to take certain factors, such as the two of us, into consideration.

"What-" he pauses, breaths in, recalibrates, "what's the plan?"

Plan. What a limited name for it.

"Saving the world."

Puzzlement is his initial answer. Then a snort, "You're insane."

That's sweet.

I'm told insane is the catchy new name for visionary, these days.

"Am I?" I trace a finger up his chest with calculated absent mindedness.

"Yeah," he concludes. Clearly, tact doesn't grow on trees.

I choose to take it as a compliment. Make lemonade of it, if you will.

Though to be perfectly honest, I've never much cared for lemonade.

* * *

I pour us champagne.

It's the finest in my stock, which by definition makes it the finest in the whole state. I don't think he has a true appreciation for that, but then again he never had the most refined of tastes.

Part of his charm, I suppose.

As usual, I run the conversation, if you can call it that. He barely speaks, hiding under his thick protective blanket of melancholy.

Endearing in a way, yet wholesomely pathetic.

He has no idea what pain – _true_ pain – is.

Not his fault, of course.

He doesn't know what it's like to feel your soul burning for someone. To wish to have your nails ripped off, your eyes poked out, boiling liquid metal poured down your throat, just so you wouldn't have to feel – _that_.

He doesn't know pain, and he never will.

But he sure is doing a brilliant job playing pretend. He's even managed to fool himself. That's the beauty of it.

Only humanity is capable of self-deception of this magnitude.

This is what's holding us back. This grand delusion.

I'm not implying that humanity is prepared to handle the truth, or even _a_ truth. Far from it.

But the delusion needs to change.

All it takes is a sufficiently skilled illusionist. Nobody would ever tell the difference.

I grow tired of talking to a live mummy and turn to the old habit of watching him instead.

He has ghosts running across his eyes in circles, wailing quietly, seeking release.

Still trapped in the past. Reliving his beloved war.

_My_ war has only just begun.

And now, I'm more than willing to do what needs to be done.

Somehow, I doubt he is.

We'll just have to see when the time comes.

I leave him to brood and go out to the balcony for a breath of polluted air.

The sun is setting, losing its eternally vigilant grip on the world.

Maybe one day it will disappear forever.

I inhale. Reality reeks of car fumes and alcohol, greed, lust and gluttony – sugar and spice and everything nice - all wrapped up in perfectly artificial polish.

And then I realize -

I miss the red sky.


End file.
